Author: poetryfest

Evening, when the shadows deepen
their embrace, when the land

bids tender farewell to the sunlight
psychedelic inch by inch, and some

begin our rest, others waking or flying to go out in awe,
in play, or on the prowl, the mosses on the rocks

and the fern in the wood begin their nightly dewing,
the delicate drops of reflection may they never fail

to delight the early risers. The mosses which quietly, humbly,
keep to their essential function, that of the same nature

as that of the stars and the orbital paths
planets glide along in workless industry

moving as not toward a goal, but in submission
to process, as if they also know

that the universe is founded in love, that the same
gentle force which undergirds the migration

of sparrows and the phases of the moon
is love, more fundamental and just as lovely

as anything like a kiss. And the little stresses
I weep on seem nothingness, when under the moon

on a log in the woods I look, and looking realize
that the essence of things is love and the reception

of love, and the fruit of love,
which is change. The mosses and I are kin.

Like water dripping
Like sun rising
your day is always shining
Night is for rest
Like a bird sleeping in its nest
Don’t think too much
You’ll be overwhelmed
You’ll be okay by the end of the day
Just know you are going to be okay

Prelude:

A building site is chosen
In a row of bushes

Act 1.

With a flurry of wings and constant loud cries
The area is cleared of unwanted spies
By stealth they take turns,
one sentry
one hunter
A twig here
A string there
Nothing too new
Nothing too big
Any scrap handy will do
Beware intruder you are sighted
Big or small it matters not
Prepare for attack
Once again the gathering can commence
With a new avenue to confuse
Interlude:
After days of hard work
Neighboring birds are given a respite

Act 2.

The protection of the mother and her eggs is paramount
A constant harassment of crows begins
The parent is relentless against these giants
Whether diving or chasing, zigging or zagging
Their massive talons are no match for an enraged guardian

Act 3.

The waiting is over
The babies have hatched
The vigilance continues
No matter where an intruder is
On a branch
On a wire
On a rooftop
He is not safe
Feeding becomes an art form
Gather
Deliver
Gather
Deliver
Gather
Deliver
A big juicy worm dripping from beak
A mouth full of grubs dribbles down the neck
Back and forth never resting
Babies cry with ravenous hunger
Vigilance continues

Act 4.

Babies abound and growing
Exploring their world
Questing for food
Learning to be vigilant
Postlude:
An empty nest
Crows can live in peace

under the moon
beneath the orange haze
of street lights
laid out on a park bench
in my bones
lie these memories of
dead souls from time gone by
old dreams crawl through
returning without prompt
lost in the night
they creep through
unwanted guests, arriving late
in the dark
memories of laughter spill
through and then
and the throb of
gentle desolation
as they fall deeper
yet they are just memories
all lost in time
with nowhere to go
on empty park benches
they linger around
the unwanted clouds of time
in life past by
under the moon
beneath the orange haze
of street lights
laid out on a park bench
in my bones
lie these memories of
dead souls from time gone by
old dreams crawl through
returning without prompt
lost in the night
they creep through
unwanted guests, arriving late
in the dark
memories of laughter spill
through and then
and the throb of
gentle desolation
as they fall deeper
yet they are just memories
all lost in time
with nowhere to go
on empty park benches
they linger around
the unwanted clouds of time
in life past by

A quiet, simple, relaxing death
Stung by flowers
Eaten up by sunshine
The smell of coffee and cakes
As I choke

A death, outside
Farewell bid by trees and beams of light
Curious, comfortable sunkissed
Fading to black as naturally as the end of a movie

What is death like?
Is it peacefully breathing
God’s sleep apnea machine
covered waist deep
In plastic bags full of sleeping larvae

Your life was like a tv dinner
You were passable and disposable
You were the flag high atop a mountain of trash
In your final moments
No sex robots or flying cars could save you

Maybe a loving embrace
A living planet
A technicolor carousel of worlds
Great glass galaxies
Dying like babies, in their sleep, peacefully

Our greatness could fill a thimble
Our wings are carved from stone
The warming buzz of pillowy columns
Thrusting like a tornado into the sky

Will death be a release?
A sneeze that blows out a candle?

All in all it was worth the trip
But now i’m garbage
Throw me in a hole and use my guts to grow the grass

Sometimes I feel the sky is falling,
and pressure builds inside my head.
I hear the Reaper calling,
my name among the dead.
Fear sends me sprawling,
blind and bawling,
nerves are shred.
Death’s dread
tread.

I’ve skinned my knees a million times,
Violet marks are courteous signs,
Saddening vague virtues,
Your hoax altruistic crimes,
Greatest of sorrows,
Cracks of the pearly sky.
My incendiary bestows,
Viz heart-warming lies,
Crestfallen applause,
On the curtain-call
of my allure play that slowly dies.
Would thee accept the blame for my scorching execrate?
Or be the sinner of a poet’s written rage?
Torment gashes me for every line I create,
As for your hoax altruism,
I cannot contemplate.

rotten stench pervades the air
seeping through brick,
gliding through wood
all of it seeking
his death to share

the announcement was silent,
unheard and unseen
suddenly dead
with what could have been

the maggots feast, BIG and fat
the flies vomit, splat splat splat
they twirl and coil
munching, gobbling
on his pile of flesh

everything spoiled
no longer fresh
and for weeks, he wasn’t missed
pants stained, blood on his wrist
accident or suicide?
Who can know, when it was for him to decide.

all we know is that he had lain
quiet and unmoving
worms eating his brain

and there he lies
the rotting corpse
surrounded by vermin
surrounded by flies

the man in apartment 42

At seven years old,
I mimic my classmates,
Pencil etching across my desk,
connecting the dots.
I copy the lines they draw:
How to talk, how to be.
Mine don’t look the same.

The proclamation:
“I don’t want to play with you.
You’re weird.”
The punishment:
playground banishment.

At ten years old,
I start to agree.
I’m unappetizing.
I’m too sour.
I try to disguise lime
with piles of sugar,
but they’ve made up their minds.

I shred my old sketchbooks.
I don’t need a reminder
of how I’m made wrong.

At twelve years old,
I decide I’ll hate them too
I decide I’ll hate me too
I decide I’ll have three years left
before I crumple
and end this.

I slice into that key lime pie.
It’s the only way to sustain me,
as my jaw finally snaps
around my own flesh.

I can’t stop.
I hack into that pie
then pick at the scabs,
as sickly-sweet wafts out
and blood turns to scars
turns to blood.

At thirteen years old,
for some reason,
I let the pie cool,
and I stay here.
I don’t know why.

I pour over pages,
fished out from the trash,
graphite gashes carving through them.
I try to make my lines beautiful.
I don’t know how.

I try showing off my art.
Unexpected compliments stab me,
critique snaps me.
Learned hate commands me
to snap back.

At fourteen years old,
I still draw ugly, wrong,
unique.
Maybe I’m not supposed
to trace someone else’s lines
and expect to fit inside.

I will stay.
No matter what or why or how.

I haven’t cut
that pie in ages.
A notched crust surrounds
lime on full display.
Because it didn’t deserve
to be hidden.

At fifteen years old
Hate fades.
My line
meets a line
meets a line
and they understand each other.

I finally see myself
living past fifteen
and the pie tastes sweet.

It happened again.
They died and I felt no pain.
Am I a monster?